I have a hobby, carving wood. I love the feel of the wood and how the figure appears, gradually, under the touch of my knife. Often I don’t quite know what will result, but I have an image in my mind. Then I connect the image and the wood. Together the three of us produce the figure.

It might be a chain, or a ball in a cage. Perhaps it becomes an ice cream cone with two sloppy scoops on top. I even made a french fry, once. Or it could be a dolphin playing in the sea.

But all are small – they fit in a hand. And all are made with my carving knives. I have improved over the years. My figures do look something like the object in my mind, tempered by what the wood is willing to share and express.

Is it art? I don’t know. The figures seem to bring joy to those who receive them. I never keep them. But is it art? I am not sure. I am fair at the task and I enjoy doing it. And I enjoy sharing it – both the works and how to make one’s own.

My background is science, both hard and soft. I spent years as a researcher and teacher. This is different.

It is a conversation, a collaboration, between the idea, my skill with the tools, and the wood. It is decidedly unscientific. It requires feeling as much as the logic of the skills and tools. And that is hard. It is also beautiful when all comes together in harmony.

Two years ago, I tried to carve a small big horn sheep head as a gift and a remembrance for the intended recipient. I was at camp and walked down to the willow bog. There I found a willow branch about 2 inches in diameter. It was perfect, a voice in my head said. So, I cut it down and brought it back.

Taking out my knives, I carefully stripped the bark. I changed knives and began to shape the figure. I took my time, carefully cutting the shape and letting the wood guide me. I still don’t understand the process. Over the next three days, an hour here and there, the big horn took form. In the end, it was cocked to one side as if listening. It was all there, the horns with the ears underneath, the narrow muzzle. And yet, I swear, it was smiling at me, as if glad to be free. It was on e of the best pieces I have done. Somewhere I have a picture.

Now, two years later, I felt called to do something way outside of my comfort zone – a larger big horn sheep head on top of a pole of Ponderosa pine from the camp.

Why?

Well, it is a Scout camp. The part of camp where we conduct our summer leadership camps had just been renamed Big Horn Meadow. The new name was to help maintain tradition. I thought we needed a symbol that all would recognize and would welcome them to the meadow.

However, I not only had no experience, I had no tools. I found a good deal on a set of chisels, so I bought them, only to find out they needed to be re-ground. I hadn’t even started and I was changing things.

Finally summer came and I had my tools. I had added more chisels, a mallet, some rasps, a small pull saw, and a draw knife. I really did not know how to use them. After talking with the ranger, I selected a log and it was set in a cradle, normally used to cut sections for fire wood.

The log was about eight feet long and a foot in diameter. And it was a straight section of the trunk of a Ponderosa from the camp. It was also a victim of beetle kill in our mountains. The log was covered with bark, so it was impossible to determine the quality before starting.

Since I could not tell, I simply hoped that it would work out. I stared at the log, a little afraid to start. I was nervous, entering very uncharted experiences. I was excited, too. If it worked, I would have a piece to be proud of that had meaning for all who come to our camp. I was taking on a solemn responsibility, at least in my mind. (I did realize that if it failed, we simply would not display it, still I felt the responsibility.)

But how to start? It seems obvious, but faced with the reality, I was not confident. I had to remove the bark, but not all of it, only the bark on the section I would carve. I straddled the log and took my first stroke with the draw knife. It was tentative. I didn’t know the tool or the wood.

That first stroke was smooth and easy. All I wanted was to clear the bark so I could see the wood. It seemed only a moment, though it was more like twenty. I had to roll the log several times to work around the circumference. Then I realized all the bark was gone. Revealing the surface of the wood and even some beetle-bored holes and tracks.

It was beautiful and overwhelming. I had to stop and walk away. It was too much. And then the rain started. I rushed back to the log and covered it with a tarp. It is dangerous to carve wet wood. I still didn’t think of it as a carving.

The next day we had sun, so I removed the tarp and got ready. Surprisingly, I had dreamed how to start. It was a sketch on the wood with a pen, outlining my first thinking about the shape to be.

I got out the tools and started with the saw. I made a few cuts to guide the shaping. At that point, disaster nearly struck. I wasn’t as careful with the saw as I should have been, cutting off what should have been the top of the left horn.

Now what?

Again I took a break. I sat in my chair about fifty yards away and did a little carving with a knife - it was a ball in a cage. As I worked, I kept looking at the log, asking for a solution. Again, the rain came, preventing further work that day.

Next morning I woke with a smile. It was simple – the sheep would have slanted its head, just as the small one I had carved two years ago. That meant carving the muzzle at an angle. But it also meant that the horns would work.

It was time for the chisels. As I worked, carefully removing small pieces, I discovered two things. First, in a very short time the face of the sheep was coming through. The details and character weren’t there, but the potential was. Second, swinging an 18 oz mallet a small distance onto a chisel for any period of time is hard work and after an hour, I was feeling it. I even had help – my friend David was taking turns, trying his hand, too.

Over the next few days, I put in several hours and the face was developing character. And, I invited anyone who wanted to try their hand. Most declined saying they did not want to ruin it. By the end of the week it was looking good, but not done\. So, I covered it to protect it from the weather and told the sheep (and everyone else) that I would return in a couple of weeks. I had become convinced that it was talking to me. Indeed, it was like a friend.

Over the next month, I went to camp at every opportunity to work on it. There came a day when it said “No more, I am done. Any more and I will fall apart.”

In fact, that was just beginning. So I stopped and began to prepare it for the finish. I sanded and rasped and smoothed, but not too much. I stripped the rest of the bark so I could preserve the log.

The carving itself called for some danish oil to bring out the grain. Then we put a clear coat over the figure and top 2/3 of the pole to preserve it from the elements. The bottom was treated so that it could go in the ground without decay.

It was ready. I had carved it, learning the tools and listening to the wood. It was wonderful. It was a carving. I found that was enough for me.

But, everyone liked it. That is a good thing, but it required a change. It required that we put it in the ground as a greeting for all who visit our camp. And that was the difference. Display turned my carving, a private project, into a sculpture. A simple one, but real.

I don’t yet consider myself a sculptor, but perhaps it is a start.